— January 20, 2025 —
The Saturday following the presidential election last November, I entered my local spa for a monthly massage, vowing to steer clear of politics. In a nation fractured by ideology, this was meant to be an hour of escape—a reprieve from the noise.
But tranquility has its limits. My massage therapist, a man immersed in alternative media, holds convictions far removed from my own. He believes the government can manipulate the weather with laser beams, that vaccines cause autism, and that America teeters on the edge of moral collapse. Knowing this, I typically redirect our conversations toward neutral ground. Yet, as the country grappled with election results, the inevitable surfaced.
“How’s the relocation project going?” I asked, aiming for small talk.
“We’re replacing six windows,” he said. “Lifetime warranty—they probably weren’t expecting the original owners to still be here.” He chuckled. “I was going to paint the garage ‘Cubby blue.’ Not just blue. Cubby blue.”
We began harmlessly enough. It was small talk at its safest.
“It’s a great time to buy a house now that interest rates have dropped,” I replied.
Then he pivoted. “Yeah, now that Trump’s back, there’s hope again. Did you see how one country pulled out of that agreement? They’re finally standing up. And those caravans at the border? Turned away. No more of this Italian-American or Mexican-American stuff. We’re all just Americans now.”
The world feels heavier now. The divisions run deeper, the stakes seem higher, and the flames of discord burn brighter. Yet, the work remains. The work of striving for a more just and compassionate society. The work of holding onto hope, even when the path forward feels fraught with uncertainty.
I took a deliberate breath, knowing a confrontation was on the horizon. “People are free to identify however they choose,” I said. “Acknowledging cultural heritage doesn’t make someone less American. One identity doesn’t erase the other.”
As he worked on the knots in my neck, he veered into broader commentary. I felt my patience thinning. “Why do people feel the need to tell others how to live?” I asked, the frustration evident in my voice. “Who made them the center of the universe? They should learn to mind their own damn business.”
He didn’t pause, nor did he soften his convictions. “What people do in their homes doesn’t stay there. It spills over into the community. Eventually, it corrupts society’s values.”
I countered. “Aren’t Christians supposed to love their neighbors?”
He replied quickly, almost dismissively. “None of us are without sin. Only Jesus was perfect. My pastor said to vote for the person who will uphold Christian values. You can love your neighbor, but if they’re doing wrong, it’s still wrong.”
I tried to match his even tone. “You’ve lived longer than I have, so you’ve seen this before. Culture wars don’t end, and when it comes to immigration, people will always look for a better life.”
He shrugged. “You want a better life? Stay and fight to make your own country better.”
It struck me then how his words, whether he knew it or not, carried a deeper truth. Change often comes from staying, from fighting to improve what’s broken.
Some friends have asked me why I continue to see him, why I don’t find another therapist. The answer is simple: he’s exceptional at his job. He’s skilled, precise, and intuitive—qualities rare in any profession. He’s able to smooth out the knots and kinks in my back and shoulders like no one else. He’s of Puerto Rican descent and in his 60s, from a different generation shaped by experiences I may never fully understand. And yet, I don’t “cancel” him because we disagree.
I’m certain there are plenty of vendors I work with (and corporations I buy from) whose values clash with my own. They just hide it better than my massage therapist. He’s transparent—frustratingly so. But reconciling his talent with his views is a challenge I accept, perhaps because it forces me to examine my own values and what it means to coexist in a divided nation.
Unfinished Business
The cremated ashes of my father sit in the crawl space beneath our kitchen floor. That’s how 2024 ended and how 2025 began. Packed tight in a cubed cardboard box, the ashes rest on a shelf surrounded by rows of storage bins filled with old clothes and forgotten papers. Every time I venture into the crawl space—to stow away luggage, retrieve holiday decorations, or check the sump pump—I see the box. It’s a quiet reminder of something I’ve left undone.
Today, January 20, 2025, carries its own weight. It marks the second inauguration of Donald Trump as the 47th president of the United States. It’s also Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a time to honor the enduring legacy of a man who envisioned a nation united by justice and equality.
Dr. King once declared, “I am convinced that if we are to get on the right side of the world revolution, we as a nation must undergo a radical revolution of values. We must rapidly begin the shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights, are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.”
The juxtaposition of these two events—Trump’s return to power and the commemoration of Dr. King—underscores the divisions that define our time. King’s words call for a profound shift in priorities, one that demands vigilance, courage, and an unyielding commitment to justice. His vision feels both timeless and urgent as we navigate the perils of polarization and the threat of fascism.
The first time Donald Trump took office, my daughter was two years old. Today, as he begins his second term, she is ten. The world feels heavier now. The divisions run deeper, the stakes seem higher, and the flames of discord burn brighter. Yet, the work remains. The work of striving for a more just and compassionate society. The work of holding onto hope, even when the path forward feels fraught with uncertainty.
Dr. King’s legacy reminds me that progress is neither quick nor easy. It demands persistence, even in the face of setbacks. His words echo a simple truth: There is no tidy endpoint, no definitive moment when we can say, “This is done.” If we want a better nation, we must continue to fight for it.
So I’ll keep going. I’ll send my father’s ashes to the Navy for the burial at sea ceremony, understanding that closure is not an end but a step forward. I’ll raise my daughter to believe in the power of love and kindness over fear and division. And I’ll hold onto the belief that America’s story is still being written, its next chapter ours to shape.
That, perhaps, is the greatest hope of all.
— Feature photo by Judeus Samson on Unsplash
— Banner photo by tom coe on Unsplash
1210 words
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